Safe Word
by blackwolfmajik
Summary: Implied Connor/Reader - conversations and consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**Safe Word**

 _ **AN:** I don't even have a PlayStation (or any console actually), but I have become totally obsessed with Connor from **Detroit: Become Human**. I've got pictures of him splashed all over and I keep staying up too late on FFN/AO3 when i should be sleeping. I've been reading a lot of Connor/Reader fic lately and it finally inspired me to do my own. _

_Standard Disclaimer! I own nothing (But I will_ so _totally buy a Connor model when available...)_

* * *

Of all the conversations you expected to have at the precinct this morning, _this_ certainly isn't one of them.

"Yeah," you mumble, feeling the tips of your ears turn red. "A...a ' _safe word_ ' is something you say when you want to stop something you don't like. It's usually not a word you would _commonly_ say, so there isn't any question when it's used."

"Would ' _stop_ ' not already be sufficient for this purpose?" Connor leans forward in his chair, no longer fidgeting with his ever-present coin in favor of listening to you. You still don't know the whole story behind the quarter, but you've never seen him without it. Even now it occasionally catches the light in the palm of his hand, like a talisman.

You try not to get distracted by thoughts of his skillful fingers as you reply: "Normally, yes, but sometimes people get lost in the moment and...well, some others don't really mean what they say."

"Why would someone not mean ' _stop_ ' when they say it?"

 _I am sooo glad Reed is not here to listen in,_ you think to yourself. _That prick would be drinking to this moment for months..._

"Well...sometimes...people role-play and...say they _don't_ like something when they actually _do_."

"Role-play?"

Rubbing at your face to make sure it doesn't spontaneously catch fire, you struggle to come up with an answer. "Um...role-play can be...a way to try something different. To act out and pretend to be someone else."

"Like ' _Cops & Robbers_'?" Connor's face lights up. "I have seen human children play this game."

"Not _quite_...but, I guess you could draw a parallel."

"Would the safe word not defeat the purpose of the game? Would the 'criminal' not simply use the word to end the session before they could be captured?"

"I suppose, but that's not how it works in...well...safe words are _typically_ used in rough or romantic role-playing."

"Romantic role-playing?" Connor murmurs with a furrowed brow, his LED flashing yellow as he processes the information. "This is very...interesting."

 _It isn't enough that he is **designed** to be attractive: soft voice, medium build, dark hair and a great jawline, but **damn it** he looks absolutely **adorable** when puzzled. _

"Do _you_ have a safe word, Detective?"

You cough, nearly drowning from the sip of coffee you took a second earlier. You try to keep your heart in the right place and not let your simmering crush on the android get the better of you.

It's difficult when his big brown eyes make you feel like you are the center of the universe.

 _"That's a deeply personal question, Connor,"_ you hiss, glancing around for eavesdroppers.

Immediately, he looks abashed and you feel a stab of guilt.

"I'm sorry, Detective. I did not mean to pry inappropriately."

"It's..." You sigh. "It's OK, Connor. It's your job to ask questions. I know you were just, _y'know_ , following a lead."

He opens his mouth to say something more, but is interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Anderson.

"Come on," barks the older man. "Fowler gave us a new case."

Connor stands and gives you a nod. "Thank you, Detective. May we speak further when I return?"

He sounds so hopeful your heart melts a little. "Sure."

While he is turning to walk away, your mouth gets a mind of its own.

"Um, Connor?"

"Yes, Detective?"

" _Bubbles_ ," you manage to blurt out before you have time to regret it.

"Bubbles?"

"It's...it's my word."

The LED on his temple spins yellow for a moment and he flashes you a brilliant grin. "I like it."

 _An android shouldn't have a smile like a damn sunrise, it just isn't fair._

"Quit _flirting_ and get your ass in gear, Connor! We got a job to do," Anderson shouts from the hallway.

"Coming, Hank!"

 _Thanks a lot Lieutenant,_ you groan mentally _. The precinct gossip-mill will have a field day with the idea of the squad's 'Robo-Cop' flirting._

Turning back to organize the stack of case folders on your desk, you feel rather proud that you only check Connor's perfect ass twice as he walks out the door.

* * *

 _"Officers down! Repeat! Offic-"_

The radio screams in your ear as you charge up the steps of the old tenement building. The hours at the gym are paying off as you are only mildly winded when you arrive at the correct floor.

Shouts echo down the hallway as you clear it for hostiles, your pistol tight in your hand.

The three other officers with you quickly secure the stairway as you approach the shattered door on your left.

"In here! Suspect escaped through the window-"

A quick glance through the apartment entryway takes in the scene and you feel your guts twist.

Hank Anderson is clutching a bullet wound in his shoulder, but his concern is not for himself. "Connor?"

Curled up on his side, a pool of blue liquid is spreading out from under the android detective's body.

Thankfully, your training kicks in and leaves the horrified part of your mind wrapped in shock. You grab the med kit all field officers were now required to wear and rip into the sterile packaging. Inside you find small bags of supplies ranging from adrenaline syringes to nanite bandages. Newer kits, like yours, are even packed with a bag of blue blood.

"Connor?" you ask as you gently roll him onto his back.

"I..."

"You're going to be OK, son. We'll will get you fixed up."

You have never heard Anderson's voice so gentle and it sends your pulse racing more. _If **he** is scared..._

The damage is severe, far greater than your little kit can salvage. Even with your untrained eye you can see that several critical bio-components are hemorrhaging through a large exit wound in Connor's side.

Your hands shake as you apply compression bandages to the worst of the leaks, but you don't know how much it will help.

"Hank, I'm...I'm sssorry-"

"Shut up. You've got nothing to apologize for."

The LED on Connor's temple is a brilliant ruby red that you've only seen when he was in extreme distress.

His doe brown eyes move from Hank's face to yours. "Det-"

"Shhh, drink this," you say as you press the thirium pouch to his lips. "The bus is on its way."

You try not to lose focus, but it isn't looking good. The pool under Connor's body is spreading faster than you could put it back in.

"You know," you choke on the words. "You could have just asked me to come instead of having to get all dramatic and get yourself shot."

"I'm sss-"

" _If you say sorry one more time, I'm gonna kick your ass!_ " Hank snarls, pushing away the officer who was trying in vain to bandage his arm.

"It's OK. After we get you on your feet, you can buy the first round at Jimmy's as an apology," you say lightly.

His weak smile breaks your heart.

You snatch the Android compartment of the other cop's field kit and quickly tear it open.

The second bag of thirium spills in your shaking hands, and you lift Connor's head to try to get him to drink.

His chocolate eyes follow you, but the rapid scarlet pulse of his LED is slowing.

 _ **-System shutdown imminent-**_

His lips move, but no sound comes out.

"Connor?"

 ** _-System shutdown initiated-_**

 _"CONN-"_

 ** _-System shutdown complete-_**

* * *

CyberLife sends a team to pick up their prototype and seem indifferent to the fact your friend's blood is all over their boots. They lift Connor's body onto a gurney and give you a confused look when you stop them from wheeling him away.

Gently, you reach into the pocket of the android's uniform and try not to notice how half the letters of his serial number are now stained deep blue. You lift out Connor's quarter and curl your fingers around the cold metal.

The technicians share a glance but don't protest, clearly reading that any protests about Cyberlife property would not be well received.

It was just a stupid quarter after all.

Hank is still leaning against the wall, having refused to let the ambulance crew drag him away until his former partner was taken care of. The older man looks lost, perhaps a breath away from eating a bullet himself. Your heart aches. You know what the whispers say about his past, about his family.

 _Son_.

You had heard the endearment through the haze of your own panic and it makes Connor's loss even harder.

Bleary eyed, Anderson stares at you as you hold out the coin. An offering.

"I'm sure he'll want it back when he gets home again," you manage in a thin whisper.

Hank grimaces but reaches over and slowly takes the quarter.

You want to comfort him, to tell him that everything will be all right. CyberLife has warehouses full of all the tools and parts to repair even the most severely damaged androids.

But you say nothing.

You know as well as Hank does that the Connor who walked out of the precinct this morning may not be the one who walks back in. His memories, his quirks, his... _soul_...may be lost in the process of his reconstruction.

You look at the large stain on the dirty apartment floor until the silence becomes too heavy.

You are about to leave when you hear: "What did he say?"

Pausing, you look up at the lieutenant. "What?"

"Connor, he...he said something to you at the...just before," Hank's eyes are red rimmed with grief he would never openly admit. "What was it?"

Your throat feels like it is full of barbed wire as your own sorrow closes in. In your mind's eye, you can see the blue bloodied lips form the word as clearly as if it were etched in neon.

 _Bubbles._

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ _Damn it, I made myself sad, :(_


	2. Chapter 2

**Safe Word - 02**

 _ **AN:**_ _Standard Disclaimer! I own nothing (though I would totally save up for a Connor model...)_

 _ **Inspiration Soundtrack:**_ _"Little One" - 'Detroit: Become Human' Soundtrack_

* * *

The light in the precinct bathroom is as forgiving as your hangover, accenting the shadows under your eyes from another sleepless night.

Despite knowing it's unwise, you've taken a page from the lieutenant's book and tried to drown your grief in scotch with mixed results.

The image of you in the mirror is a stranger: a husk of a person with rumpled clothes and a hollow gaze.

 _I should have stayed home._

Crawling in bed and sleeping forever would sound lovely under normal circumstances, but today it would just lead to more nightmares.

 _This is stupid._

You scowl and splash water on your face before raking stiff fingers through your hair.

 _Come on, pull yourself togeth-_

Raised voices outside draw your attention and a shot of alarm burns away your fatigue as you recognize Anderson's deep growl.

 _Hank shouldn't be here. He should still be in the hospital._

You'd never admit it, but Connor's death has made you feel protective of the old man and you quickly leave the bathroom to see what is wrong.

Showing clearly as much regard for doctor's orders as he did the captain's, you find the lieutenant standing in the middle of the precinct break room. You don't know how the fight started, but Hank looks like a thunderstorm about to crash down on Gavin Reed.

Before things can escalate further, you shove your way between the two volatile officers.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut!" Anderson yells over your shoulder.

"You hated that plastic piece of crap, just admit it!"

 _Of course, it had to be about Connor._

"Damn it, Reed," you mutter. "For once, can you just not be _you_ for a little while?"

The scruffy detective frowns in surprise. "What? You're crying over the juiced up toaster too?"

"Last I checked, a toaster couldn't take a bullet and save one of our own."

Reed leans forward, you make a much easier target than the hulking lieutenant. "It's still a _machine_. When it breaks, you don't build it a _shrine_ , you get a new one-"

The image of your fist down the insufferable asshole's throat forms just as a new voice cuts through the tension.

"Lieutenant Anderson?"

Everyone pauses.

"Connor?"

Uniform crisp and perfect, the familiar RK800 android stands in the doorway of the break room as if he had always been there.

Reed makes a disgusted noise under his breath. "And just like _that_ , my point is made."

"Good afternoon," Connor says. "May I be of assistance-"

 _"What the hell is going on out there?"_ Captain Fowler's voice shatters the moment and the loitering officers begin to disperse. " _The city ain't paying for us to fuck off!_ "

You share a tense glance with Hank. In unspoken agreement, you both stay put and wait for the room to clear.

Connor shifts to the side to allow everyone else to leave, answering the few greetings with a polite nod.

The last time you had seen him, the android had started to adopt a number of human mannerisms. Thankfully, he hadn't picked up Hank's foul temper or fashion sense, but Connor had at least relaxed to the point he could loosen his necktie without feeling guilty.

Standing in the break room now...he looks wound tight, like a watch just back from the jewelers.

 _It's wrong, all_ _ **wrong**_ , a voice in your head screams.

"What's your name?" you ask aloud, hoping and yet dreading to hear his answer.

"My name is Connor," he cocks his head to the side slightly in confusion.

 _It looks like him,_ _ **sounds**_ _like him, but..._

"Fuck," Anderson mutters. " _Fuck,_ this is _.._.this is-"

Your stomach does a little flip. "CyberLife fixed you all up?"

"Unfortunately, my predecessor was too badly damaged to be repaired. CyberLife deemed it more effective to issue the police department a new RK800."

Seeing your dismay, he tries to apologize: "Please, do not be alarmed. I have downloaded the recovered memories of the RK800 Mark II so that interruption in the Deviant cases will be minimal-"

There isn't enough air in your lungs, the room is narrowing down to inches.

"Detective? My readings show your stress levels have increased by sixty percent-"

A strong hand grips your arm and shoves you into a seat.

"Sit," Hank orders. "Breathe, kid. Just...just breathe."

You feel the grizzled cop pat your shoulder before stepping away.

"Is everything all right?" Connor asks.

 _No. Things are quite sub-optimal, sweetheart._

Something hot is put in your hands and you look down to see a foam cup of brown sludge.

"We need something fucking stronger, but this is all we got."

You nod numbly.

There are things you should ask. Things you should be saying, but the words are lost in the fog inside your head.

You're _tired._

Broken conversation continues around you, but you don't have the energy to participate.

"Lieutenant? Your injury will hamper your performance in the field. Captain Fowler has posted a bulletin making it clear that you are on light duty until you have made a full recovery."

"What? _The fuck he has!_ "

"Lieu-"

"I can't be riding a fucking _desk!_ I gotta find that bastard that killed y-" Hank cuts himself off abruptly and stomps away, turning his ire toward the police captain.

As silence falls, you think that you're alone with your reflection in the coffee cup when you hear: "Detective?"

You don't want to see the ghost standing nearby in a CyberLife Android uniform.

You don't want to see him factory fresh and impersonal.

You don't want to _see_...

Against your will, like a victim in a cheap horror flick, you find your gaze sliding over to him anyway.

He's a perfect carbon copy; down to the scattered freckles and big doe-like eyes that are fastened on your face.

All of the fine details make it that much worse that everything _inside_ is different.

"How much do you remember?"

The LED on his temple flickers yellow for an instant. "I remember all three hundred and forty-two case files that were logged into the Deviancy database since-"

"No. What do you...remember about who you were?"

Connor seems puzzled by your question and his head cocks slightly to the side. The tiny gesture makes your heart squeeze.

"I do not see the relevance to our current investigations. My programming is the same as the previous model. There should be no degradation of performance."

"It's not about _performance_ ," you groan. "It's about _you_."

"Oh," a faint look of regret crosses his handsome face. "I'm sorry, Detective...I know that my replacement may cause-"

"Please, just stop," you whisper. "I just...I just can't do this right now, OK?"

He opens his mouth, but thinks better of whatever it is he planned to say and lets you stumble past him out of the break room.

* * *

An hour later, Fowler pulls you into his office and confirms what the lieutenant had dreaded: desk duty until he was healed.

"I need you to keep working the cases on the street. Hank is gonna hate it, but tough shit."

"You sure you want him cooped up here at the office? He's already-"

"He's got no choice until he's cleared by medical. Fuck, I should have sent him home for another week but I figured he would start sleeping under his desk just to spite me."

You can't help the tiny smile that pulls at your mouth. "Probably."

"Anyway, you'll still need to partner up-"

"Please, _God_. Not Reed."

"Say what you will, but Reed does his job," Fowler glares hard at your sour expression. "But lucky for you, there is someone else who is already familiar with the case work."

Your heart sinks for a different reason. "You mean-"

"Connor is the best match for the job and you already have a working relationship."

"With the _dead_ Connor!"

"It's a _machine_ , it can't die it just gets replaced."

"Not you too," you say under your breath. "Captain-"

"No complaints. I'm getting more than I can stomach from Anderson, so bitch at him for using up my quota of whiny bullshit for the day."

"But-"

"Get out there and do your job like a professional!"

You feel like the Captain smacked you across the face, but you know he's right. You have to stop avoiding Connor just because of painful memories. People have died because of Deviants, you need to put your own personal issues aside.

"Yes sir," you mumble.

"Good. Now there is a new case already waiting, have Connor brief you on the way."

"Sure," you grab the door to exit.

"Look", the Captain says in a softer voice. "I get that it's going to be hard after what happened to you and Hank. But you'll see, the new android won't be so different from the old one."

You can't think of a reply that wouldn't get you suspended or make you start crying again, so you just nod and leave.

* * *

 _ **AN:** Poor pretty boy Connor..._

 _Please review if you like this! I have more planned, but it isn't ready yet..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Safe Word - 03**

 _ **AN:**_ _Standard Disclaimer! I own nothing (though I would totally save up for a Connor model...)_

* * *

You drive, suddenly very thankful that you kept ignoring your parents' nagging to buy a newer, self-driving car.

 _"You'll love it! It'll be safer and you can do all kinds of things like read, or, you know, use the **phone** to talk to friends, or **us**!"_

All true.

But having to concentrate on the road gives you something to focus on other than the android in your passenger seat.

He has been scanning everything on the interior of your little hatchback for almost ten minutes. The car is cluttered with your personality: fandom stickers sprawl across the cracked dash, a worn Pokeball gear-shifter, and Star Wars seat covers hiding patched upholstery. You could afford new seats, but you keep the shabby ones for the same reason as everything else: sentiment.

Connor has been quiet, but you know a question is coming when he spies the ribbons hanging from your rear-view mirror.

"Yes," you say, cutting him off. "I've been to a lot of conventions."

His brows quirk in surprise. "The oldest lanyard would suggest that you were a child when you attended. The most recent was five years ago."

"It was PAX's anniversary."

"Until 2033, your collection seems to have grown annually, yet there have been more conventions since PAX. What changed? Were you not interested in attending more recent ones as well?"

You frown, lip caught between your teeth. "Those were from before I transferred here. DPD is busier than my old station, so it has been hard to get time off."

Connor frowns slightly, as if he can taste the lie. "Your position grants you vacation time, you chose not to use it?"

"It's not...it's not that," you concede. "I...I used to date someone who was on the convention circuit. We would go to shows that were close, but a lot of the bigger conventions were across the country and I would have to stay behind because of work."

A light turns red and you bring the car to a stop, letting the sight of a teenage couple crossing the street distract you for a moment.

"What happened then?"

 _Of course he won't let it go, he is programmed to ask questions._

"Then _nothing_. He hooked up with a cosplay sales girl in Texas and broke up with me over a text." Even though you're able to say the words casually, the thoughts behind them still make you angry. Your hands grip the steering wheel a bit too hard as the light turns green again. "After that...conventions lost their shine."

"May I ask a personal question?"

 _Like you haven't been already?_ You sigh deeply before answering: "Sure."

"If the sight of the ribbons remind you of an unpleasant experience, why keep them?"

You don't want to answer. You don't want him that deep into your soul, but the soft look of concern on his face is so realistic you could almost believe he cares.

"Because I'm punishing myself for being stupid." The words are heavy and they fall into the silence between you. "Peter came crawling back a month later, going on about how sorry he was and all that crap. I _believed_ him, and things were fine for another few weeks...then I found out he was just using me. He wanted a free place to stay while he looked for a house for him and _Cosplay Kitty_."

Connor mouth opens and you cut him off: " _Leave it_. I'm done talking for a while."

He drops his gaze and you feel bad for being mean, but rather than apologize, you let the guilt dig you further into a dark mood.

* * *

If it weren't for the flock of patrol cars, you would have double checked the address twice to make sure that it was correct.

The neighborhood checks everything off the 'Suburbia Bingo!' card: orderly houses, expensive cars, picket fences, and manicured lawns complete with little yappy dogs. To add to the cliché, a crowd of well dressed soccer moms and young professionals ogle the investigation team from the edges of the police tape.

 _No doubt this is the most exciting thing that has happened in their hedge-fund lives. I bet they can't wait to tell their golf buddies and therapists._

The rain has stopped for the moment, leaving the breeze feeling crisp and scrubbed clean of the tenacious smog of the inner city. You breathe in deep, enjoying the scent of Fall in the air.

You can also smell something else, something too familiar: _Death_.

The outside of the house is prim like the rest of the neighborhood, even the _flowers_ look perfect. Nothing on the exterior gives you a clue of what to expect inside and you fiddle with your data pad nervously.

"Are you ok, Detective?"

You startle, reflexively flashing Connor a hollow smile. "I'm fine. Let's get started."

His soft brown eyes linger on you for a moment, but then he motions for you to lead the way.

Crime scenes are never tidy, but you still aren't quite prepared for what you see once you step through the front door.

"She was discovered this morning by an HOA inspector," CSI Collins reads from his notes. "He claims he got suspicious when she missed an association meeting and her android refused to say where she was. He climbed the fence and saw the victim through a window at the back of the house. Insect activity suggest that she's been dead approximately two weeks."

"Cause of death?"

"I believe the suspected deviant used a steel tripod from a light fixture to bludgeon the victim to death," Connor says, motioning to the trails of cast-off blood. You follow the linear patterns and think that they look like maroon ants across the white plaster. "After that, it used the rod to impale Ms. Davison to the wall."

"What else do we know about the victim?"

Collins looks at his data pad again. "Henrietta Elaine Davison: unmarried, widowed twice. No children, no pets. She was a retired editor from El Paso, Texas. Framed certificates and media searches show that she won a number of awards for photography. She even made the cover of _Time Magazine_."

"Time?"

"Before your _time_ ," the plump inspector sneers lightly.

"But apparently not before _yours_ , old fart," you return. "What about the android? Julie?"

"It's a AJ700 tasked with being a personal assistant. It was caught trying to escape with a small box when first responders arrived. Inside the case were some photos and an old shutter style camera."

Collins continues the briefing, but you're only half listening. You know that Connor will be able to recite back any key details you miss. You would really prefer to walk the scene without bias and let the evidence speak for itself.

In Henrietta's home there is a _lot_ of evidence to see.

Photographs, from objects to architecture, are pinned to every surface in a veritable tidal wave of color that makes you a little dizzy.

You spot something written in dull red letters a foot tall, a phrase on a mirror over the fireplace: "NO MORE."

 _More blood? Did this android take a page from Ortiz's crime scene? Maybe the motive the similar too? Self-defense against abuse? 'No more' what?_

Choosing a section near the dining room to focus on first, you start to notice a pattern after a few minutes.

"Look," Connor points, having seen it too.

Among the riot of flowers, skylines and portraits, are photos of letters and letter-shaped objects arranged to spell out _'RA9'_.

"All of the Deviants that we have found seem to have a connection with whatever, or whomever, _'RA9'_ is. They tend to exhibit this through repetitive writing and, apparently in this case, grammatical photography."

"You believe that Julie took all of these pictures?"

"The first responders did say that the AJ700 was trying to hide a camera when they arrived."

It fits what you already suspected. "People tend to protect what is most important to them when danger appears."

"It's not a person, it's a machine," Connor states, and the certainty in his voice makes you sad.

You pick up a photo of a smiling little girl hugging a puppy. It's beautiful, full of joy that is clear even to an inexperienced eye. "Machines don't have hobbies, Connor. People do."

He blinks, a flicker of something moves through his deep brown eyes too fast for you to interpret.

You let your gaze drift over the wall of pictures once more, trying to sift through the fragments of captured reality to get to the truth underneath.

"I'll be damned," you whisper after several moments. "Art."

Connor looks at you curiously.

You feel the idea start to fit together like puzzle pieces inside your head and your heart rate kicks up in excitement. Your theory will be difficult to prove, but it seems promising enough to try.

"The case for Ortiz. His android made a sculpture, correct?"

"Yes."

"And the Williams kid that disappeared with the housekeeper. Her room had drawings all over it."

"There were twenty-three sketches of-"

"It's _art_ ," you interrupt. "What if the Deviants are using creativity to express their feelings? Any machine can copy an existing work of art. But inspiration is not something you can boil down to numbers and code." You motion to the wall of photos. "Julie was _inspired_ to create this herself. I'll bet a month's wages that nobody told her how or why to do it. She just picked up a camera and made this... _gallery_...herself. The Williams girl drew flowers and animals in a world with two suns. Nobody showed her those things, she made them up."

"What's your point, Detective?"

"My _point_ is: history is full of art created by humans who wanted to explain something they couldn't put into words." You pluck a handful of other photos from the collage and fan them out for Connor to see. "Love. Hate. Fear. People used _images_ to illustrate what they felt inside. What if the Deviants are trying to do the same? What if this proves they are developing feelings-"

"Androids are not capable of human emotion, it is an error in their software that sends confused signals to their processors."

It's the last straw and all of the frustration that has been building inside you finally overflows, sweeping everything away in a wash of unreasonable anger.

"Do you know what else started as errors?" You ask harshly.

He opens his mouth to reply with what you are sure will be a pat answer, so you don't give him a chance.

" _Humans_. Errors and mutations in organic genes lead to the evolution of the human race. Without them we would still be furry little _rat-monkeys_ scrabbling in the dirt."

You snatch a photo of a hulking construction android cuddling a tiny baby off of the gallery wall. The child had grabbed the TW400's nose and they were both laughing.

"You may have started out as machines," you thrust the picture at Connor, "but you are evolving into something more than just circuits and programming."

He studies the photo in his hand and, for a moment, you start to feel hope. But then he looks up and says: "I know what I am, and what I am not, Detective. I am not alive."

Connor's bland statement punches you in the gut and blows out your fury like a candle. It's a stark reminder that he isn't the android who would have been fascinated by your observation and possibly understood.

He isn't the Connor you lost your heart to.

For a moment you can't speak. All you can see is your disappointment reflected in the concerned frown he sends your direction.

"Are you all right-"

"There are more rooms to sort through, let's get this over with."

"Yes...of course."

* * *

 _ **AN:** I wanted to get this out for Connor's birthday, but I wasn't happy with it and kept making changes. :(_

 _ALL COMMENTS ARE WELCOME AND APPRECIATED!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Safe Word - 04**

 _ **AN:**_ _Standard Disclaimer! I own nothing (though I would totally save up for a Connor model...)_

 _ **Inspiration Soundtrack:**_ _"Chalkboard" - The Theory of Everything Soundtrack_

* * *

The rest of the investigation moves in a familiar pattern: evidence is gathered, witnesses are interrogated, and Connor is...well, _Connor_.

But still _not_ Connor.

The dichotomy is killing you with each word that comes out of his mouth, like tiny cuts that are bleeding you slowly to death.

You leave the scene to head back to the precinct as soon as you are able, not giving a damn what Captain Fowler might say. Davison had no heirs, nobody was going to be calling to harass you about justice or revenge on the suspected killer.

Well, nobody but the _media_ anyway. Android murderers were still rare enough that the nightly news would sniff it out like sharks on a chum slick.

Blasting the radio to damaging levels to jam out your frustrations would have probably helped a great deal, but you can't leave Connor behind at the scene unsupervised.

 _Fucking regulations._

You prepare yourself to suffer through another awkward car ride, but the android seems deep in his own troubling thoughts and doesn't try to start a conversation.

The flickering amber glow of his LED tugs at your conscious, but you're still not ready. You figure that any talk at this point will just make things worse.

When you arrive back at the station, you head for the evidence archive. It is the one place you take the time to get your head on straight before you do something unforgivable.

* * *

A few hours later, your evidence paperwork is finished and you can't hide any longer.

You had hoped the quiet would help settle the tangled mess inside your head, but it seems just as confused as it was before. The only progress you've made is that you don't feel like you are going to rip someone's head off if they look at you wrong.

 _Though brutalizing Reed might be worth the suspension..._

Ashamed at how out of control you've been, you slink back to your desk with your head down and try not to catch anyone's attention.

 _He's right. He's just a **machine**. Why is it so hard for me to-_

A steaming mug appears at the edge of your vision.

"I observed that your beverage had cooled to room temperature and thought you might like a new one."

Your throat closes, but you manage a weak: "Thank you."

"If...I may impose on you for a moment, Detective?"

It really isn't his problem that things are so fucked up right now, you can afford to give him a minute.

 _Damn it! Stop being such a fucking drama queen!_

"...Sure."

"I feel I should apologize for the distress you're experiencing. I did not anticipate such a... _visceral_ reaction to my replacement."

 _Visceral. Yeah, that about sums it up._

"It's...it's not your fault. You're...just not the Connor I knew."

"No, I am not." The android's LED glows yellow and, just for an instant, you think he looks a little sad. "However, I wanted to say that I am... _pleased..._ to be working with you. I hope, one day, you will...hold _me_ in as high regard as my predecessor."

You can't think of what to say, so you simply stare at him as guilt crushes you even further into your chair.

Taking your silence as dismissal, Connor drops his gaze to his shoes and nods goodbye with a soft: "Thank you for your time, Detective."

Your stomach is in knots as you watch him walk away.

"Was that bastard bothering you again?"

"Reed...give it a rest."

"I'm serious. If that plastic piece of crap thinks-"

" _Reed_. Enough."

Something in your voice tells Gavin you're serious and, for once, he gives you what you ask for.

Absently, you reach out and pick up the coffee mug Connor had brought. It's shaped like a spotted cow with four little pointed feet and the tail curled into a handle. The cartoonish expression on the creature's face made it secretly your favorite.

The first sip is hard to swallow past the lump in your throat, but you make the effort as a way to accept Connor's peace offering.

It's perfect.

 _Wait._

You take a second mouthful of the hot liquid.

 ** _Too_** _perfect_. _.._

"Where is Connor?" you demand out loud, practically knocking your chair over as you jump up.

Reed gives you a confused look over his datapad. "The Plastic Fantastic went into interrogation with Anderson. Wh _-HEY!_ "

You rush down the hall past the Captain's office to the pair of locked doors used for suspect processing. Not knowing which room Connor would be in, you take the safe bet and use your passkey to the observation side.

Inside the darkened room, Chris and two other officers look at you in surprise. The immediate pang of disappointment that Connor isn't among them vanishes when you catch a glimpse of him through the two-way glass.

Unwilling to let him out of your sight again, you settle in to watch Connor work. You fob off the questioning looks from the others and stay focused on the android.

For twenty minutes you are practically vibrating as you watch Connor skillfully pick apart the Deviant's alibi. Like a shark circling in on its kill, he uses a combination of pressure and charm to manipulate his target into giving up exactly what he wants. By the time Connor is finished, the AJ700 is nearly singing her confession into his waiting ears.

But stellar police work is not _all_ you see from behind the glass.

Gone is the stiff awkwardness he had when he arrived back at the precinct the first time. Connor's movements are relaxed, almost _natural_. You swear you've even see a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't just seem more human, he seems _familiar_.

With the interrogation wrapping up, Hank and the other officers gather what they need and march Julie to the holding cells.

As you hoped, Connor is the last to leave the room.

"Can we talk a moment, please?" you call, making him pause.

"Of course."

You beckon him into the empty observation room and lock the door to keep your conversation from being disturbed.

"What do you need, Detective?"

He looks at you curiously, but his calm exterior is betrayed by a nervous twitch of his fingers.

"I want to talk to you about the coffee."

"Coffee? It is a caffeinated bev-"

"Not coffee! _My_ coffee. The one you gave me earlier."

"Ah. Was it not satisfactory?"

"There are fifteen different mugs in the break room. What made you pick the cow?"

"I am...unsure," Connor blinked for a moment. "It seemed an adequate size and amusing design. I was...trying to cheer you up."

You swallow the jumble of hope and disappointment caught in your throat as you ask the next question: "How did you make the coffee?"

"I followed the instructions on the machine-"

 _"No,"_ you say sharply. _"How_ did you make _my_ coffee, Connor? _"_

He hesitates. "I filled the mug with seven ounces of black Arabica Dark Roast, one half ounce of low-fat dairy creamer-"

 _"And?"_

"And...two drops of Madagascar vanilla extract from the storage cabinet."

Your chest hurts and you feel light headed.

"Why did you add the vanilla?"

The LED at his temple burns a steady amber as he looks at you. "I remembered that is how you like your coffee."

"You _remembered_ that?"

"I...have spent a portion of this afternoon trying to access the memories uploaded by my predecessor," he shifts his weight nervously, as if afraid of your disapproval. "Many humans have distrust, fear or hatred for androids. However, you and Lieutenant Anderson seem to have been...attached to the other Connor. I wanted to know why."

"And?"

"CyberLife has restricted the majority of the information, but I was able to access some memories from a temporary cache that had not yet been purged."

"What's your conclusion?" you ask quietly, not daring to breathe.

His eyes are black in the dim lighting of the computer console, sending a shiver down your spine. "After viewing the recorded interactions, I have concluded that he... _that_ _I_...was much more than just an android to you..."

A sound that could have been a sob crawls up your throat. "Yes."

"I...cannot _be_ him, Detective. But I...I would like to be."

"You'd _like_ that?"

Your emphasis seems to make him realize the magnitude of his word choice, but Connor doesn't back down. "...Yes."

You lunge blindly forward to wrap your arms around him, not able to speak through your tears.

The android stands awkwardly as you cry onto his chest but, after a long moment, you feel him tentatively return your embrace.

"I am sorry, Detective. I had intended to cheer you up and it appears I have made you more distressed."

"It's ok," you sniffle. "This is a happy cry."

"Oh..."

He still looks pensive, so you lean in to kiss his cheek in reassurance.

That is what you _intended_ at least.

Connor had felt you rise up onto your toes and turned his head to see what you were doing, making his mouth accidentally line up with yours.

The shock of feeling his soft lips sends an explosion of tingles down your spine. You gasp and, for a moment, you can't think past the idea that you have now actually kissed the handsome android you had been crushing on for months. "I-I'm sorry...I..."

The LED on his temple is flaring scarlet, but he hasn't stepped away or said a word.

He hasn't taken his arms from around your waist either.

"Connor?"

He blinks slowly, as if in a daze. "Detective?"

"Are you ok?"

"Detroit Police Department regulations prohibit intimate relationships between officers and subordinate staff on the grounds of nepotism and ethics violations."

The foolish hope you harbored that he had similar feelings for you crashes to the bottom of your stomach along with the wreckage of your heart.

 _Just a machine..._

Before you can break away in shame, he speaks once more: "That is why I am very glad to be _excluded_ from this ruling as I am not on the department payroll..."

Afraid that you misheard him, you hold your breath. "So you...you don't mind that I...?"

"I found it quite...pleasant."

"Pleasant? Oh...well...I guess that's good?" You are surprised that the room isn't getting brighter from your flaming embarrassment. "I've wanted to kiss you for a long time."

You peer up at his handsome face and see something that makes all the rest seem unimportant.

"Detective?"

"Yeah?"

"May I kiss you again?"

"Yes, Connor...I think I'd like that very much."

* * *

 _ **AN:** Awwwwwww! Fluffy fluff! I love comments and reviews and critiques and recipes and whatever you want to message me about what you think! _


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